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  Winter’s Secret

  Winter Black Series: Book Six

  Mary Stone

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To my husband.

  Thank you for taking care of our home and its many inhabitants while I follow this silly dream of mine.

  Contents

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Winter Black Series by Mary Stone

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Description

  Some secrets hurt; others can kill...

  The Preacher is dead, the case solved, but now Special Agent Winter Black’s missing brother seems to be taunting her, leaving a trail that leads back to their old house in Harrisonburg. As she learns more, Winter must fight the urge to revert back to that primal part of herself that was set on secrecy and vengeance during the investigation of her parents’ murder. Especially now that her best friend and partner, Noah Dalton’s, own past has come back to play.

  Noah’s father, Eric, has borrowed money from the Russian mob, but won’t give the FBI the whole story, even though his daughter and son-in-law have been kidnapped and the clock is ticking on their lives. What is he hiding? And who will pay the price?

  A dirty cop, a RICO case, and more lies than truth. Can Winter and Noah sort out the pieces and put the puzzle together before the hostages’ expiration date? Or has it been too late from the beginning?

  Book six of Mary Stone’s page-turning Winter Black Series, Winter's Secret is a twisty, roller-coaster of a ride that doesn't let up until the very last page.

  1

  Horror movies always made Natalie nervous, especially if she watched them late at night. Though she assured herself that the unease wouldn’t follow her home from the theater, a chill flitted down her back as she pushed open the front door to her house.

  She paused to turn around and wave to her friend, but when the quiet engine hummed to life, she remembered she was on her own.

  Rather than focus on the supernatural scenes that had made the film they’d just seen so unnerving, she tried to mentally take stock of the cinematography and the acting. Sometimes, if she examined a scary movie to admire all its separate parts, she could alleviate the creep of anxiety.

  In fact, the friends she’d accompanied to the theater that night had given her the suggestion. They were both horror aficionados, and about once a month, they would pile on her couch to watch movies and eat popcorn and other snacks. Their comments on the plot and characters tended to keep Natalie’s fright at bay while in the comfort of her home. But they’d gone out this time.

  And she, nearly thirty years old or not, was now officially spooked.

  She rubbed at the goose bumps rising on her arms as the red taillights of the car faded away.

  “Stop it,” she scolded herself, firmly shutting the door. She was a married woman, after all. Nearly thirty years old. She no longer believed that monsters hid in her closet.

  She didn’t, dammit.

  But the thoughts wouldn’t stop. It was probably because they had been in a public theater, and both friends had, rightfully so, remained silent as they ate their popcorn. Natalie could only assume the lack of commentary was the reason for the overwhelming rush of nervousness as she flicked the silver deadbolt into place.

  Stepping out of her flats, she retrieved the phone from her back pocket to check for a new message from her husband. Jon’s normal shift extended into the mid to late evening hours, but he was often roped into staying to help the late-night shift supervisor fill out paperwork, take inventory, or any number of responsibilities.

  Sure enough, the last message had been received a half-hour before the movie. The message advised her he wouldn’t be home until late that night, but he hadn’t sent a follow-up to estimate a time.

  With a sigh, Natalie turned on each light as she made her way out of the foyer and into the kitchen. The fact that her husband, a retail manager, worked longer and more erratic hours than Natalie did as a flight attendant never ceased to amaze her. Chances were good that, by the time Jon returned home from a twelve-hour shift, she would be asleep on the couch, a half-eaten bowl of chips on the coffee table in front of her.

  As she reached to open the cabinet where they kept the snacks, she paused. Then she smiled.

  No, tonight she didn’t have to eat chips for dinner. Jon had made enough chicken parmesan to feed an army, and they had leftovers that would last well into the apocalypse.

  The smile remained as she stepped over to the next cabinet. But as soon as she opened the door and retrieved a plate, the smallest of sounds caught her attention.

  It was the sound of someone breathing.

  Close.

  Right behind her.

  Her heart all but leaped into her throat as the icy rush of adrenaline surged through her body, but before she could move or even shout, a sharp sting bloomed at the base of her neck.

  It’s just a bee, she thought. But only for a second.

  Even as she raised a hand to slap at the source of the pain, darkness enveloped her vision. All the muscles in her body went slack, and she felt the plate slip from her grasp. Just as soon as the ceramic shattered against the floor, she felt herself falling, though she couldn’t be sure she was actually falling. The sensation was dreamlike, almost as if she were suspended in an unfeeling void.

  The next thing she felt was her head hitting the floor, then merciful nothingness.

  With a sharp breath, Natalie jerked back to consciousness. Her sleep had been deep and dreamless, and at first, she assumed she had just woken from a nightmare.

  She had fallen asleep, at least she thought that must be what happened.

  But if she’d only fallen asleep, then where was she now?

  The faint scent of must and mildew in the air mingled with another smell she couldn’t place. Iron? Maybe copper? Why would the air in her house smell so musty, and why would it smell like metal?

  As she squeezed her eyes closed in an effort to clear her vision, to think, she reached to rub her temples…or tried to, at least. The binding around her wrist clinked as something sharp and cold dug into her skin.

  “What…?” she breathed, pulling harder, then harder still. She didn’t stop until the bite of the metal into her wrist was too much to bear.

  Panic clawed its way in to overtake her rational thoughts as she tried to make out the few details of the surrounding area. With her free ha
nd, she touched the cool metal that still cut into her flesh.

  A pair of handcuffs, one closed around her arm, and the other around a pipe or a pole—she couldn’t tell. She thought she could see the shape of her arm, but for all she knew, the sight might have been a figment of her imagination.

  Unless the house she shared with Jon held a secret room that the realtor hadn’t mentioned, Natalie was certain she was no longer at home. The basement of their split-level residence was finished, and even the cement floor of the laundry room was more refined than the rough surface where she now lay.

  Biting her tongue to stifle a surprised cry at the realization, she pushed herself to sit. Each motion was more arduous than the last, her limbs feeling as if they were trapped in a vat of molasses.

  The fingers of her bound hand were cold and tingled from the lack of circulation. Strands of her shoulder-length hair were matted to the side of her face with sweat, and her head pounded with every beat of her heart.

  This must be a dream. Any second, she would wake up to the drone of the television as another rerun of a cooking show came to an end.

  Teeth clamped together, she pulled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes.

  Was she in hell? Had she died in her sleep? Had she ever really bought a house or married Jonathan Falkner, or was this where she had been the entire time? Had their uneventful, albeit peaceful life in Baltimore been an illusion?

  No, that was ridiculous.

  She needed to get her thoughts under control if she wanted any chance to figure out where she actually was.

  Eyes closed, she relaxed her shoulders, inhaled, and counted to eight. Clenching and unclenching her hands, she exhaled and repeated the process. Eight in, four out. Eight in, four out.

  The icy tinge of adrenaline and fear still chilled her, and her palms were still clammy, but the swirling vortex of farfetched scenarios had calmed enough to allow room for rational thought.

  Before she started to walk back through her most recent memories, her breath caught in her throat.

  There was someone else in the room with her.

  She had been unable to hear their breathing over the rush of her pulse, and even now, she had to strain her ears to make out the sound.

  “Hello?” she managed through chattering teeth. The word was little more than a squeak. “I-is someone there?”

  No matter how diligently she tuned in to the still world around her, the silence was deafening. There was only more of the quiet, ragged breathing accompanied by an occasional gurgle that wasn’t natural.

  Natalie had never been an expert in the health field, but even she could tell that the person at the other end of the room was in bad shape.

  “Can you hear me?” she asked.

  A low moan was her only response.

  How had it come to this?

  As hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember a single event after the plate had slipped out of her grasp. Without a doubt, the sting she’d felt in her neck had to do with the inky darkness by which she was now surrounded.

  But why? And better yet, where? Who? What in the hell was going on?

  As if on cue, a muffled thud sounded out in the distance. The slat of light that pierced through the gaps in the doorframe seemed as bright as an overhead fixture. The door eased open with a rusty creak, and she thought she might have been witness to the explosive death of a star.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks from the sudden sting of the light. She used her free hand to block out a portion of the glow as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. Through her eyelids, the illumination changed again as the visitor flicked a switch to bathe them in light.

  The light was like razor blades slicing through her pupils.

  She was desperate to see this person, to learn who they were and make sense of this musty room, but she hadn’t had a chance to let her sensitive eyes adjust before the man spoke.

  “You are awake.”

  The simple observation was tinged with a heavy accent. Russian? She didn’t know anyone who spoke with a Russian accent. None that she could think of.

  Desperate to clear her vision, she blinked rapidly as she squinted up at the man. His face was rugged with a five o’clock shadow that darkened his cheeks. His close-cropped hair was styled, and with the leather jacket, button-down shirt, and dark wash jeans, he looked like he might have just come from a nightclub.

  “Who are you?” Natalie was ashamed at how weak her voice sounded. How stricken. She blinked a few more times before she could stand to meet his gaze as she swallowed in an effort to work up enough saliva to speak clearly.

  “You can call me Alek.”

  Before she could think of another question, she caught the first glimpse of the other prisoner.

  Crimson smeared the dingy floor, and more had spattered against the wall. Like Natalie, one of the man’s wrists was handcuffed to a metal pole that extended from the floor to the ceiling. The sickly overhead light caught the shiny spots of fresh blood along his arms and his stomach. As her gaze finally settled on her husband’s face, a startled cry burst from her throat.

  “No…” Horror and grief gripped at her chest as tears burned their way into her eyes. “No, Jon, no.”

  Anxiety closed around her heart and pressed on her lungs as she tried to take in a breath of air, but it felt like someone might have been sitting on her chest. She glanced to the silver handcuffs that bound her wrist to a rust-specked radiator. If she had taken a second to consider the bind, she would have known she couldn’t break free. The radiator might have been in sorry shape, but it was sturdy.

  But as time slowed to a crawl, she knew one thing for sure…she had to try to get to her husband. Wheezing for breath, she jerked her arm forward. The metal bit into her already abraded wrist as she strained against the shackle.

  The pain was excruciating.

  Like a thousand needles scraping already raw nerves, she sobbed when the first drop of blood appeared. Gritting her teeth, she tried harder.

  “You can do this,” she whispered to herself.

  She bit back a scream when the man laughed at her efforts.

  No, she couldn’t displace the heavy radiator, but she had a petite frame like her mother. Maybe she could pull her wrist through the handcuff, especially with the blood to lubricate the way. As she tucked her thumb beneath her palm and flattened her fingers, another low chuckle froze her in place.

  “Those are small handcuffs.” His accent was thicker now. “Same handcuffs your American police use for, how do you say? Juveniles.”

  With a fervent headshake, she snapped her attention back to the well-dressed Russian. “That’s not…” She paused. She was out of breath, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fill her lungs with precious air. “You…you can’t do this.” As much as she wanted to scream at the man, her voice was little more than a hoarse croak.

  Her struggle clearly amused him.

  “I can.” Scratching the side of his face, he glanced back to the still form and shrugged. “Your husband, Jon, yes?”

  “Why are you doing this?” The question was hardly a whisper, and she doubted the man even heard her.

  If he had, he didn’t react.

  “He is shot. In his stomach.” His conversational manner made her want to scream. “Most people do not survive injuries such as this unless they are transported to a hospital right away. You are aware of this, yes?”

  “I don’t understand.” She wanted to demand answers from him, but all she could manage were dumbfounded statements of shock.

  “Let me simplify. He is dying. Slowly. And by morning, he will be past saving.”

  A sob burst from her lips. “Why?”

  Again, he ignored her. “Of course, he was never meant to survive. Jonathan Falkner is nothing more than the message.”

  “What?” She opened and closed her mouth several times before she could form another coherent remark. “Message? What message? Who are you? What do you want from us?” She was
babbling now, but she couldn’t make herself stop, her volume rising as her panic grew. “Please, just tell me! Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you. Anything. Just get him, please, get him to a hospital!”

  The Russian had started to shake his head before she even finished, the evil smile still playing on his lips. “No. We want nothing from you, Natalie. Your father is, how you say, a different story. He owes me and my people.”

  “My father?” she echoed, the word reflecting just how incredulous she was. “What could you possibly want from him? He’s an airline pilot!”

  “Eric Dalton.” Only the brief flare of his nostrils betrayed his annoyance. “That is your father, yes?”

  She could only gape at him.

  Eric Dalton was a commercial airline pilot, not a criminal. He was a family man. A good man. In fact, he’d done nothing but take excellent care of Natalie’s mother as she recovered from a traumatic car accident. What could this Alek person want from him?

  Did he mean her brother? Ethan was still in college. To her knowledge, neither he nor any member of her family had any history with the…damn…whoever this man’s “people” were. A gang? The mafia?

  She shook her head. Surely not. She must have indeed watched too many movies.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. Think. What did she know so far?

  She knew that her captor was Russian, or from a country with a very similar accent. Thinking hard, Natalie wondered if his country of origin had anything to do with this? Earlier that year, Natalie had purchased a kit to trace the genetics of her ancestry. There was Dutch, Polish, Scandinavian, but no Russian, so she didn’t think that could be a connection.